


No Questions Asked

by publicity



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Frottage, Leashes, M/M, Master/Pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publicity/pseuds/publicity
Summary: working title.also, disclaimer: i love wholesome content of ougoku, but i have trouble writing it. i think that ouma has strong feelings for gonta that are sometimes overshadowed by his nature to mistreat people out of instinct. someday i hope to write a fic that properly conveys his angle in this dynamic, which i see as rather complicated. regardless, hope you enjoy!





	No Questions Asked

**Author's Note:**

> working title.
> 
> also, disclaimer: i love wholesome content of ougoku, but i have trouble writing it. i think that ouma has strong feelings for gonta that are sometimes overshadowed by his nature to mistreat people out of instinct. someday i hope to write a fic that properly conveys his angle in this dynamic, which i see as rather complicated. regardless, hope you enjoy!

As he approaches their meeting spot, Gonta’s mind explores the possibilities of what Ouma wants to talk about. They had been consistently spending time with one another, not that Gonta can seem to remember when that started — sometimes they take a walk together, sometimes relax in a spare classroom, sometimes Ouma even agrees to sit in the entomologist’s lab while he prods on about this scheme or that grand idea, and Gonta enjoyed listening. Despite warnings, Gonta quite likes Ouma — although, maybe he quite likes everyone.

He waves a greeting to classmates he passes on the way and gets some in return, before opening the door to the warehouse. Large, impending shelves dwarf even him, who does a curious scan around the room before settling on his summoner. Ouma notices him and motions at Gonta with an innocent ‘come-here’ pull of his finger. He gives a toy ball he was holding one last squeeze before tossing it aside, bored of it — presumably nabbed from one of the shelves. The warehouse, so dark and lonesome to Gonta, is one of the last places he and Ouma would normally spend any time in, and he thought it an odd place altogether as he carefully side-steps a crate of shot-put balls and approaches.

“Gonta!” Like seeing an old friend after a long time, Ouma’s cheerful tone envelopes him. People say that Ouma lies about his feelings, but Gonta never felt that Ouma was unhappy when they lounged about as a pair.

“Thank you for playing with Gonta again today!” he says first with a hand on his heart, chipper despite his incognizance. Ouma makes it known that Gonta is just as boring and formal as always, but the comment is paid no mind. “What does Ouma want to play today?”

Another thin smile returns to alight Ouma’s face. The shorter student makes a grand gesture of peering around Gonta as if he’s a great obstacle, checking to see that he wasn’t followed.

“Well, I just thought of a little game you’d be amazing at, is all.” he comments absentmindedly, checking the state of his nails. Gonta’s eyes are immediately shining.

“Gonta’s only talent is bug science, but...is there a game Ouma thinks Gonta can play well?” Though his interest is still piqued, there’s a shred of doubt in Gonta’s ability to be any help, what with such basic skills he’s convinced he possesses.

“Oh, sure.” Ouma nods. “In fact, it’s something you were _made_ to do. It’ll be easy for you.” he sneers, “And you’d be a _great help_ to me!” and his eyes search for the desired reaction. And with that,

“Please tell Gonta!” he exclaims. There’s a slight shuffling of his feet as he awaits his commands. Ouma beams at him, taking one large step in Gonta’s direction.

“We’re playing pretend, and you’re gonna be my dog!” he announces, arms raised and awaiting an uproar from the crowd, yet the silence that follows is deafening.

Gonta hears it, then processes, then processes again.

“Gonta... dog?” the reveal casts doubt on him again where there was once briefly some hope. He’s not so much upset as he is visibly confused, a thoughtful finger to his chin. It’s only for a moment, but what his expression divulges is clear to Ouma.

“You’ll do that for your supreme leader, won’t you, Gonta?” his voice is sugary sweet, then abruptly pierced with tears. “You see... my organization has a puppy that I miss dearly! All I want to do is pet him again, but I’m trapped in here!”

Ouma’s theatrical sobs and wails paint sympathy on Gonta’s face, and he almost looks ready to cry himself.

“You’re the _only_ one who can play this game with me.” he insists, to which Gonta wrings his hands as he stumbles over what to say.

“Oh...but...” Ouma sniffs and lets out a large sigh. “If you don’t think you can _do_ it, Gonta...” His eyes cast down and he gives the floor a kick.

Gonta finally responds in the Gonta way — a rather clumsy, innocent way. Plopping right down at Ouma’s feet onto his haunches. Ouma’s stare widens, but he says nothing now. He only watches, a wild feeling mixing in his gut. After a moment of consideration, Gonta puts two politely curled fists near his chin as well, his face a bit flushed, as even he is shocked by his sudden eagerness.

“Um, like this?” he asks.

His is an expression that is enchantingly pure, his pose irresistible and cute. Gonta is glowing with what Ouma knows is the anticipation of praise. He adjusts his posture slightly, as the urge to reach into his pants and jerk off onto the plane of Gonta’s face suddenly grips him.

“Wow! Amazing! _Wonderful_ , Gonta! You’re so smart!”

Gonta grins, the phantom movement of a tail wagging almost tangibly.

“Maybe Ouma right, Gonta thinks he’s good at this game.”

“That’s right. _Soooo_ good. I knew you could do it.”

Ouma beats around the bush no longer. He reaches down to cup Gonta’s face, drawing him close. For now, he merely lets himself be guided, his bespectacled gaze thankful for the appraisal. It felt so good to do right by Ouma, it was almost addictive.

“Does my doggy want me to pet him some more?” There was a sudden swipe of Ouma’s thumb over Gonta’s bottom lip, threatening to dip inside his mouth.

“Uh...”

If he was not a man of many words before, the sudden intimacy of Ouma’s touch finds Gonta struggling to respond. He dodges Ouma’s question with his own.

“—O-Ouma’s secret club’s dog... what his name?”

“Gonta.”

Ouma ghosts over his tanned cheeks, firmly puzzled now. Regardless, he remains obediently still as the reach extends to stroke his throat, Ouma strokes and he _strooooookes_ — his finger traces the length of Gonta’s neck over the stuttering hum of his adam’s apple to the tip of his chin. Gonta has to plant his hands between his thighs for balance, finding himself fighting to keep composure as he toes the floor.

“That’s a good pose, too.” Ouma muses.

He pets the mop of Gonta’s hair, and Gonta instinctively leans into his touch, much to his own embarrassment.

“Ah, uh—“

“Good dog. I bet you like that.”

Ouma is right on the money again. His fingers comb through the jungle of green locks to massage his scalp and scratch behind his ears. Gonta’s stomach is doing backflips while Ouma’s coaxing him to relax. He struggles to do so, yet his body is commanded by Ouma; he works Gonta like an instrument fumbling to be tuned, the tension in his muscles a taut bow that draws out the most pleasant sounds when played with. Ouma is happy to know that Gonta will meet his teasing hands wherever they may wander. Right now, they want to go down towards Gonta’s lower torso to trace agonizing patterns near his navel and below. Gonta feels his skin ignite and the hair stand up on the nape of his neck.

“O-Ouma—“ he starts. One of his hands just barely protests the touch, until he loses the drive in favor of a new focus: that coiling sensation in his gut. Ouma‘s wild stare appraises him as he dips his fingers in the tight space between Gonta’s undershirt and the peek of his belt. Horror strikes him when he sees the strain his own cock is giving on his dress pants as a result of the touching. He’s thankful that Ouma isn’t making any comments—

“Oooh, what’s got puppy excited?”

Gonta’s face contorts. It’s dawned on him by now that the pet name is causing most of the tenting in his pants (which he can’t even begin to attempt to question — the morality or lack thereof.) Even though he’s only a victim of Ouma’s scheme, he feels pangs of guilt for being so undignified, and they roll off of him in waves. All the while, Ouma’s gaze is boring holes into his groin. It softens as he meets Gonta’s eyes again, slightly misty.

“Don’t you look uncomfortable. Poor puppy.” Gonta keens against the fingers fiddling with his belt buckle. “Yknow, no good little dog wears people clothes.” Ouma drags the zipper of his pants down ever so slowly. “It’s weird. You understand, don’t you?”

The beginnings of sweat form on Gonta’s forehead as he ponders the implications of what Ouma is saying. He decides that despite the resolution being foggy, all he wants is pressure to be taken off of the front of his slacks, and maybe for Ouma to keep calling him those funny names, and that that is enough.

“...Gonta understands,” is all he manages to squeak in reply before Ouma is on him. It’s half a lie, one that Ouma seems to pick up on and kindles a face-splitting grin. But Gonta is letting him undress him anyway, and in turn Ouma lets it slide. There’s a detectable excitement in the urgency of his hands — one he’s never exhibited before — they seem to fumble somewhat while he rids Gonta of each and every piece of clothing, like they’re hot to the touch, like he just can’t move fast enough.

Gonta is soon back to his squatting position, now stark naked, furiously pink. His hands are between his legs doing their best to uphold his modesty. Every innocent gesture, every dart of his eyes, every fidget alights a dark instinct in Ouma that is hardly masked on his face, even when filtered through a smile.

“Don’t get shy on me now. You were doing so well before.” Ouma mopes.

He waits expectantly for Gonta to unhand his own dick, and carefully, he does. His hands move to hide his eyes instead, careful to hook under and not smudge his glasses. But when he covers them, he feels pressure on his neck and peeks... only to find Ouma has fastened a collar around him.

“Gotcha!”

Gonta can’t help but rush to tug at it — but it’s not too tight. His perplexed gaze travels up and along the length of the attached leash, where the end rests in Ouma’s fist.

“Now you’re perfect.” Ouma exhales like an artist thoroughly satisfied with their piece. He bends to meet Gonta’s eyes again, close enough to notice that his breath has staggered. Close enough to kiss him — but he doesn’t. Ouma’s free hand reaches to under-hand Gonta’s large cock, feel its weight, and give the dark head a pump and a squeeze. Gonta immediately forfeits the air he’s holding and cries out in a wavering pitch. Tears prick the corners of his vision as Ouma jacks him off — just until he can see Gonta’s knees are shaking.

“That’s a good boy! Let’s do something even more fun.” Ouma releases him, haphazardly wiping the precum on his hand onto the seat of his pants. He drops to the floor completely. A few hard tugs on the leash guides Gonta to all fours, then coaxes him to crawl closer, until his massive frame descends on Ouma in its entirety. The remaining shred of his dignity sounds off, and not wanting to frighten nor hurt Ouma, Gonta attempts to avoid as much contact between his naked body and Ouma’s clothed one — although now flushed and panting, he’s having difficulty upholding a domesticated role. Ouma reads Gonta’s face, and in protest of the careful handling, moves to meet a stiff leg to his dick. The movement is clumsy due to their positioning, but thankfully Gonta is much too easy to please. He chokes, swallowing a moan and involuntarily thrusts his hips back against the pressure.

“Oh noooo, someone help! My dog’s attacking me!” Ouma says, yet only pulls Gonta closer and closer toward him. The noise he makes is a whine that settles into a groan, low in his chest.

“Now he’s growling! Oooh, he has me pinned! He’s gonna have his way with little ol’ me! I’m _sooo_ helpless!” He wails, lips curled impishly.

Gonta’s head is swimming. The more he listens to the words and tries to comply, the more flushed against his small body Ouma coerces him, until he has Gonta anchored in place by a combination of his legs around his hips and one very short leash. Gonta is overwhelmed with the feeling of their closeness, suddenly very aware of the sweat now pouring down his brow. His own horrified face is locked with Ouma’s enthralled one, who bites his lip and writhes under Gonta’s weight. He’s definitely hard, and has been from the start, growing frustrated trying to find friction of his own. As much as Gonta is growing warm under his eyes, he continues to resist for courtesy’s sake.

“Come on you big lug, do what dogs do.”

Gonta’s cock presses on Ouma’s ass. He’s partially thankful, partially upset by principle that there’s a pair of pants between them. His hips buck and he’s suddenly drooling a couple of hazy apologies. He can’t, he _shouldn’t_ , but he does — Gonta’s gasps and shouts against Ouma’s ear are animalistic and desperate as he humps him wildly into the floor. The fashion in which he’s grinding on him is surely unbecoming of a gentleman, but he loses himself to the feeling, holding Ouma just as tight as he’s being held in return; it’s half emotional intimacy, half carnal urge to engross his dick in the compact space between Ouma’s ass and his own stomach. A tug to the leash. Gonta’s strung along and dragged slightly upward on Ouma’s torso just so that their cocks are more properly aligned and wedged against one another. In the short moment Gonta lifts his head, he soaks in the sight Ouma’s face. It’s unlike anything he’d seen before; where there was one cynicism, only pathetic threads of composure remained on Ouma’s face. Red and wincing, mouth agape and brows twisted, his plum hair plastered to his forehead. A thought passes Gonta: _maybe Ouma should also take off his_ —

“Hey, keep going.” he urges between gasps, yet another yank at Gonta’s throat. They blink, wide-eyed, coming to find how eerily it sounded less like a demand, and moreso a plea. Just as it crosses his own mind, Ouma reads this deduction on Gonta’s face and harshly jerks the leash again. He repeats himself, more venom this time. A fourth tug, forcing his mouth into a hard line.

Gonta finally tears his gaze away from Ouma’s and he recaptures the pace of his thrusting, but just as there was an instinctual drive to cum entangling him, there is now a coupling feeling of butterflies. Seeing Ouma’s face like that had set him up for complete undoing. A burning ignites against Ouma’s ear as Gonta’s mouth makes delightfully ravenous sounds and attempts at sentences against it.

“Ouma is so cute,” he manages.

Ouma nearly shouts, his fist twisting in the leash. “Shut up, God, just... shut up,” There’s no conviction left in his voice as he’s, although with cloth barriers, fucked uselessly into the floor. He’s scrambling to hold on as he feels he’s merely the object against which Gonta is rutting to pleasure himself. One, two, three more ruthless thrusts against Ouma’s stomach, and that many more chants of his name before he’s cumming across the plane of Ouma’s shirt and scarf. It’s a peer at Gonta’s blissful face, tongue lolling to the side of his mouth that convinces Ouma to let his orgasm take him as well, teeth gritted in a contrasting strangled silence.

The grip that’s so tightly digging into Gonta’s back remains, and remains for a long time, as does the hush sound. Ouma refuses to brush away the long bangs that hide his incalculable expression. He’s slowly comes down from high, and just as he’s hoping for a moment to recollect, Gonta can’t stop himself from holding Ouma close again. The castle walls of his frame enveloping them, one sweat-streaked cheek to another. Gonta doesn’t mean to alarm, but with a swiftness that suggests he doesn’t want to miss the chance, he places a sweet and chaste kiss on Ouma’s mouth.

The duration of the deer-in-headlights expression that possesses Ouma is much longer than he’s like to admit. He’s next shaking it out of himself and delivering a jab to Gonta’s hip.

“Yuck! Gross!” he exclaims, dramatically wiping at his mouth. Gonta only stares at it thoughtfully.

“I — I don’t want a dog’s tongue in my mouth!”

“Ouma, game is over.” Gonta says. He’s not angry, but he’s definitely serious. “Gonta is just Gonta again.”

“...Yeah... whatever.” Shockingly, Ouma doesn’t try to get up. “I don’t need _you _to tell me that.” he mumbles in a defensive and childish way. He’s just letting Gonta hold him, as if Gonta isn’t still naked, as if there aren’t dark ropes of stains on his white clothes. The sight of them makes Gonta flush and look away. There’s a beat of silence again, punctuated by Gonta adjusting his glasses on the slick bridge of his nose.__

__“Was Gonta any help?”_ _

__More silence, but this time there’s an element of peace to it that Gonta doesn’t want to ruin by pursuing an answer if Ouma doesn’t want to entertain him with one. He doesn’t._ _


End file.
